Story:Bait and Switch/Arrivals and Departures
|author = StarSword-C |published = 3 October 2013 |stardate = December Earth Standard |previous = |next = }} Half an hour later I go back to the Bajor carrying a big takeout box of jumja sticks. Cooked, not replicated, and even tastier than I remembered. I drop them off in my quarters then go to the cargo transporter room to oversee the reloading of our quantum torpedo supplies. Not much to do, just sign off on the last requisition forms and watch to make sure the transfer goes smoothly. Then I go to the bridge, where Tess is waiting for me. “How are things in Gunnery One?” I ask. “Oh, that. They had a power supply glitch in the number two phaser bank but we got it fixed. Also, Commander T’Var is ready to disembark.” Lieutenant, now Lieutenant Commander T’Var was my ops officer, but she’s been promoted and given her first command, the USS Olokun in the Eighth Fleet, and our trip to DS9 is an opportunity to do the transfer. She’s your typical Vulcan: stoic, by-the-book, and as sharp as they come, and I need to get back down to the airlock to meet her. Before I go, though, I ask Tess when her replacement’s coming in. “Lieutenant Commander Reshek is supposed to report in tomorrow morning,” she replies. “Not leaving much room for error, is he?” Tess doesn’t say anything either way so I give her the bridge again and head down to the airlock. It’s much less of a madhouse now that most of the crew are DS9’s problem and I see T’Var’s short-cropped brunette head in line behind a warrant officer from astrometrics. She spots me, drops her duffel and salutes. “As you were, T’Var. I came to see you off.” “I appreciate that, Captain. I hope my transfer will not complicate your upcoming mission.” “Civvie guard duty? It’ll be good to have an easy run to break in my new ops officer on. I’m more worried about you: you really sure you’re ready for your first command?” “I have served under you for two years, Captain Kanril, and I have observed how you handle yourself and your ship. An Ushaan-class is not an exploration cruiser, true, but the basic principles of command are much the same regardless of vessel.” I smile. “You’ll do fine. Knock ‘em dead, and don’t forget to write.” “I will not.” She raises her right hand and parts her middle and ring fingers. “Live long, and prosper, Captain Kanril.” I try to follow suit but no matter how many times I’ve tried I can never get my fingers to do that so I resort to a handshake. “Live long and prosper, T’Var.” The security ensign waves her through the airlock and she picks up her duffel again and steps off the ship. The rest of my shift is mostly paperwork and admin stuff, signing off on yet more requisitions, giving Crewman Targ a talking-to in the brig (“you’re on your last chance,” “you keep it up and you’ll be cashiered and it won’t look good on a resume,” that kind of thing), and checking in Main Engineering to make sure the experimental dilithium-free warp core is still operating at specifications. The Bajor’s a testbed for a core redesigned to provide the same amount of power but be safer to operate. Instead of running with lots of fuel in the chamber and relying on dilithium crystals to moderate it, it uses minimal fuel levels, which is supposed to be more efficient and easier to shut down: just cut off the fuel and let it burn itself out. I know for certain we can go further on less fuel, always a good thing with the wars straining the Federation’s resources, but thankfully we haven’t had to test its resistance to a core breach yet. At 1830 I finally hand off the bridge to the officer of the watch, a Benzite ops lieutenant named Mugo, and go to my quarters to change into street clothes. Dark blue skirt, white blouse, black Klingon leather jacket that cost me a month’s pay when I was a lieutenant. I add lip gloss and eyeliner and head for Quark’s for dinner and a drink. The place is packed with people of varying levels of sobriety but it’s basically the same as it was the last time I was here. The dance floor is crowded and the music suitably pounding. I hear holo-Leeta’s voice over at the dabo table as I muscle my way up to the bar. This evening it’s apparently Woadroh on duty. He’s humanoid, but looks like he’s made of wood, and from some minor species I’ve never bothered to look up. He’s facing away so I tug his sleeve. “Hathon hammer,” I say to him. “Eleya!” he says, face cracking into a huge smile. “What are you doing here?” “Just a stopover between assignments. Anything interesting going on?” “’Fraid not. Station theater’s between seasons and Holosuite One is down for repairs and the others are booked solid.” He pulls a drink shaker out from under the bar and pours a measure of Klingon bloodwine into it, then adds two shots of kava juice and one of Cardassian kanar. He shakes it hard and pours it into a martini glass. “One Hathon hammer. Can I get you something to eat? The gladst is hot.” “Yum.” I pick up the martini glass and sip it slowly. The cocktail, made by some insane bartender on the homeworld, is damned good but like its name says it hits like a hammer. Then somebody taps my shoulder and a rough tenor voice asks, “Is this seat spoken for?” I turn my head to see probably the burliest Bajoran I’ve ever met. In fact he’s big enough I guess he might be from New Bajor; the colony’s got about a third-again the gravity of the homeworld. Spiky blond hair, blue eyes, a rugged square jawline with a neatly trimmed beard and mustache. Very handsome. “Not by anyone I know,” I reply to his question, and he takes a seat. “Uh, bartender, I’ll have what she’s having.” “Want me to start a tab?” What the hell. “Put it on mine,” I say. The Bajoran grins. “Thanks, miss.” “Call me Eleya,” I say, proffering a hand. He shakes the hand. Firm but gentle. “Gaarra.” “Where you from, New Bajor?” “Yeah, Chamba City. How’d you know, heavyworlder looks?” I nod. “Heard about a bombing there two days ago.” His face darkens. “I lost a cousin.” I touch his shoulder. “I’m sorry.” “It’s fine. I just keep thinking, maybe if I was there and not here—” “Take it from me, there’s nothing down that road. In my case I was there and it didn’t change a whole lot.” “You lost a cousin in a True Way bombing?” “No, thirty shipmates to an Orion boarding party, including almost my entire gun crew.” “Close enough.” Woadie finishes his cocktail and one of the serving girls brings out a steaming plate of gladst for me. “What in the name of the Emissary is that?” “Gladst. Klingon mushroom dish.” “Klingon food? Is it any good?” I shrug. “I like it,” I say, taking a spoonful. Not sure why I’ve got a taste for Klingon food; most of my countrymen hate it. Still, they do cook some things I won’t touch. Like gagh. Live worms. Gross, and it turns into intestinal parasites if you don’t chew it properly. ‘Course, some humans eat deadly poisonous fish. Takes all kinds, I suppose. “I’ll pass,” Gaarra says. “Bartender, can I get a bowl of zabu stew, please?” Woadie nods and passes the order to a server. “You pass on Klingon and then order Cardassian?” “War was forty years ago, Eleya, before either of us were even thought of if I’ve got your age right.” “It’s not that. Okay, it is that, just a little, but it’s more that it stinks up your breath.” He gives a slightly cocky grin. “And you care about my breath, why, exactly?” “Well, if we’re going to be dancing in a few minutes it’d be nice not to smell the fayzo on it.” “Might take you up on that.” He raises his glass. “To... Oh, the hell with it, to getting drunk with a new friend.” “Ha! I’ll drink to that.” We clink glasses and drink. The music changes to this strange electronic, rock-ish thumping. “Woadie, what’s that?” “Oh, that’s from the middle of the last century, almost. Alba ra, Talarian music.” “Talarian? I’ve never heard of ‘em. Gaarra?” He shakes his head. “It’s good, whatever it is. You want to—?” “Dance? I’d love to.” Gaarra takes my hand and leads me out onto the floor. Normally I feel a bit awkward on a dance floor because I tend to tower over my partner. At 185 centimeters I’m fairly tall for a Bajoran. For once though, my partner’s even a couple centimeters taller. He’s also a much better dancer than I am so I let him take the lead through this song, and the next. And the one after that. The music shifts to a slow Paradan woodwinds number and he holds me close and we mostly just turn in place. I kiss his cheek experimentally and whisper, “You want to get out of here?” “I’d love to but I have to be at my ship early tomorrow.” “Same here, so we won’t make an all-nighter of it.” “Sounds like fun.” ---- I stroll onto the bridge the next morning at 0830 feeling extremely refreshed despite the early hour and plop down languidly in my chair. Tess gives me a funny look and rolls her eyes. “What?” “What do you mean, ‘what,’ Eleya?” she says, walking over and sitting in the chair next to me. “You walk in here looking like a grayth that just dined on prize alicorn and expect nobody to notice? So, how was he?” “Mmmm. He was damn good.” “Details.” “Not now, Tess, there are ensigns present.” She laughs. “Later then, but I want details.” Then she’s in Number One mode again. “The new ops officer arrived a few hours after you got back last night. He’s in your ready room.” “All right.” I stand and she follows. The door slides open and—“Oh, hell.” Standing at attention—not figuratively, thank the Prophets; that would’ve been just perfect—is Gaarra, the guy I went to bed with last night. I turn red, and I can see a muscle twitching in his jaw but he manages a completely professional salute despite it. “Sir. Lieutenant Commander Reshek Gaarra reporting for duty. Sir.” “I prefer ‘ma’am.’ At ease, Commander.” He clasps his hands behind him. I walk to my desk hoping Tess didn’t notice, but of course she did and I can see the obvious question on her face. I sit down and pull up Gaarra’s—''Commander Reshek’s'' file, something that if I’d bothered to take more than a cursory glance at when I first received it I wouldn’t be in this position. “U of Alpha Centauri ROTC, then you were on the USS Spruance for seven years. Captain Parsa credits you with saving the ship from a core breach after Chief Engineer Diabate was killed by shrapnel.” I look up from the screen. “I don’t get it, it says here you were assigned to the nav deflector.” “As you pointed out, ma’am, Commander Diabate got decapitated, and a lot of the other engineers were killed, too, and the nav deflector isn’t exactly a necessity when there’s a D’deridex trying to blast you into next week so Lieutenant Parrish sent me aft. I knew enough to operate a welding torch and reseal the coolant line and I suppose they considered that worth a medal.” “I see. Well, Parsa’s good people, and her recommendation’s good enough for me. I’ll let you get settled in and meet your staff. We’re getting underway at 0900.” “0900, yes, ma’am.” He salutes again, I return it, and he executes a proper military turn and strides out of the room. I rest my face in my hands as the door hisses shut. “Well?” Tess prompts. My hands drop to the table. “Yes, all right? I had sex with my ops officer, and no, I didn’t know he was my ops officer at the time.” I look up at her and she shakes her head. “Those ‘details’ I mentioned, El? Forget it.” “Yes, thank you for that, Tess.” The doorbell sounds. “Enter.” It’s Korekh. “Captain, the last of the stragglers are aboard and…” He trails off, looking between us. “Is there something that I should be aware of?” “Nothing that concerns you, Dul’krah,” Tess saves me. “Skipper just had an interesting time on shore leave.” He stands there for a few seconds looking blank, then shakes his head and continues. “DS9 Security detained two development lab ensigns for drunk and disorderly and one torpedo bay crewman apprentice for underage drinking.” “Killjoys.” “Captain?” “Joke. Dock a week’s pay and put the crewman on KP.” “Already the plan, Captain.” “Any trouble with the Klingon crews on station?” “I am told there was a near-altercation at the Velvet and Lace strip club between my own JG K’lak and a second lieutenant from the IKS HoS. Their man called him a bolwI’.” “‘Traitor,’” Tess translates. “I’m surprised K’lak didn’t kill him.” “As am I, but they were apparently able to settle it with a drinking contest instead.” “Who won?” I ask. “Either they were too evenly matched or Romulan liquor does strange things to Klingons. Both became unconscious after four shots and were dragged home by their shipmates.” I chuckle. “Anything else?” “No, Captain.” I check the clock on my console. 0845. Tess, Korekh and I return to the bridge. Tess and I take our seats and I press the intercom key. “All sections, this is the captain. All sections, report readiness.” I listen to the string of reports from the ship’s various sub-departments. As one section finishes, their department head reports all secure. This includes Reshek in Ops. “All departments secure,” Tess says formally. “All hands, this is the captain. We are ready to depart. Comms?” “Aye, Skipper,” the communications officer says and turns to his console. “DS9 Flight Control, this is USS Bajor, requesting clearance to launch.” “Stand by, USS Bajor.” After a moment, “USS Bajor, you are cleared to depart.” “JG Park, you may begin undocking,” I say. “Aye, Skipper. Docking tube disengaged,” JG Park reports from the conn. “Umbilicals disengaged. Docking clamps retracted. We are detached. Firing starboard thrusters.” The ship slides sideways ten meters. “Firing aft thrusters.” The ship begins to slowly accelerate. “We are clear of the station.” “One-half impulse power. Lay in a course for the Malon System, warp 9.” “Course laid in. One-half impulse, aye.” The ship accelerates away from the station. “We are at minimum safe distance.” “Engage.” The Bajor moves onto a new heading, then the stars smear into blueshifted lines and the Bajor rockets past the light barrier. Author's Notes The Hathon hammer was inspired by this exchange in Star Trek Online's off-topic forum. Alba ra appeared in . You can listen to a sample of it (and Picard being a buzz-killer) here. The differs in several details from the ''Enterprise''-D-era . The dilithium-free warp core is based in part on remarks by Canadian engineer Michael Wong in essays on StarDestroyer.net on Star Trek engineering safety failures. On a more frequently relevant point, she carries quantum torpedoes instead of photon torpedoes. And before any Roddenberry loyalists start complaining that "there's no money in the Federation" regarding Eleya docking pay (seriously, I've seen them bitch about me using the term "pay grade" in its idiomatic sense), that was contradicted six ways from Sunday all the way back to TOS. Having looked at all the evidence from TOS to VOY, and given what money actually is conceptually (a medium of exchange for trade so you don't end up trying to barter something your trading partner has no need of), my personal solution for the contradiction is that Earth specifically doesn't use money. Whether other planets in the Federation do or not is up to them: Reference the , located on a planet which is most certainly a Federation member. It's one of several Roddenberry ideas that sounds good as a high concept but is absolute horseshit when considered logically. ----